Who was your first crush?

I was 17 and working a Saturday job in between studying for my A Levels and making new friends at the small-town Technical College I’d just transferred to. Before that, I’d spent a year at a city centre Sixth Form College. I was missing my friends and my old, cosmopolitan life. My new setting didn’t seem to hold much joy for me and I felt like I was going through the motions of life instead of fully living it. I was also feeling lonely. Everyone else seemed to have already paired off into girlfriend-boyfriend couples. I never met a boy I fancied, though, and it was only me and a few other odd bods who were still single.

One Saturday, after work, I switched on the TV while I was waiting for dinner.

This was back in 1990 and TV in the UK consisted of four whole channels. Channel 4 was the newest on the block and my mum frowned upon it for being too avant garde and controversial.

She was occupied in the kitchen so I switched the TV onto Channel 4. There was a music show playing – a country music show. I half-listened and watched the singer, reflecting on my day and wondering how I’d spend my Sunday.

The host of the show announced the next singer and a tall figure dressed in a sparkly blue cowboy suit strode onto the stage. I saw a spiky quiff and smouldering eyes that would have made Elvis envious. And then the song began…

Oh, that voice! Rich, dripping in emotion, seductive… And matched with looks to the camera that said “come hither”.

I hithererd.

In fact, I knelt in front of the TV screen, leaning in to get as close as I could to this vision of loveliness.

As I watched in awe, one thought kept going through my mind:

I don’t know if you are a boy or a girl, but you are what I want.

The song ended. The singer waved and walked away. The show host’s voice said, “Thank you kd lang!”

kd lang. Is that the name of a boy or a girl? I was none the wiser. This was way before we had the internet so I had to sit with my unanswered questions and unexpected feelings.

It wasn’t that I hadn’t had crushes on girls before. I had. I’d had a crush on my best friend, my English teacher, the girl in the year below me who played the trombone… I’d even shared a kiss with a girl. But I’d never met someone so androgynous and so seemingly confident in their sexuality as kd lang.

A trip to the music store that week saw me spending my Saturday paycheque on my first kd lang LP and discovering that she was indeed a she and that I was truly and totally in love.

At 17, I knew I wasn’t in love with the actual kd lang – but I was in love with what she represented. We just didn’t have butch, androgynous, confident, sexy lesbians in the media in the 80s and 90s. At least, none that I had come across before.

I wanted her and I wanted to be her.

I wanted to know that I could create my own way of being a sexual woman – a way that didn’t have to involve high heels, eyeshadow, and putting up with boys’ farting jokes. I was only 17 and at a pivotal point in my blossoming sexuality. kd lang was the sunshine and the rain that helped me to grow. From that first encounter, worshipping her on my knees in front of the TV screen, I learned what my sexual attraction felt like – I learned what my sexual desire felt like.

A few years later, having made it out of the small town and to university in Edinburgh, I was in a café bar (the Filmhouse) and, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a figure stride towards the bar. Blonde hair – not dark like kd – and wearing a black leather jacket and blue denim jeans – not a rhinestone covered cowboy suit. Despite the lack of visual similarity, I instantly recognised the same androgynous sexual confidence I’d watched that day on Channel 4.

Through a series of events that were part synchronicity and part deliberately manufactured by me, we ended up in my bedroom.

My delight in her butch androgyny was matched by her delight in having someone who appreciated and was attracted to the real her. She kissed me firmly, her chin bruising up against mine, as one hand snaked around to unclip my bra. “That’s better,” she said, as my large breasts swung free for her to fondle while we smooched.

Her breasts were tiny in comparison, and she never wore a bra, but she welcomed me playing with her nipples too.

It wasn’t my first time making out with a woman but it was my first time making out with a woman quite like her. My first time being with someone whose self-confidence and self-assurance when it came to fully inhabiting their authentic sexual self, meant that I could take the risk and inhabit mine fully as well. I wasn’t trying to keep up – I was being carried, effortlessly, on the wave of mutual attraction, lust, and appreciation.

Up until then, sex had always felt like a bit of a performance to me. I’d been a spectator in my sexual encounters, worrying about how I looked, worrying about taking too long to orgasm (or faking it because I convinced myself I couldn’t come). But this time I surrendered all of those worries. Even though our bodies were so very different, her confidence in hers allowed me to feel more confident in mine.

The sex wasn’t perfect but it didn’t have to be. It was real, passionate, messy (at times), and ultimately set me on a path of enjoying my sexuality my way.

I still have a soft spot for androgynous butch women. Several decades on, we have new language and understanding of the spectrums and rainbows of gender and sexuality, and I define myself as queer. For now, that seems like the best way to encapsulate my range of sexual attractions, and how it feels to inhabit an ever-changing body. It also gives me space to allow my sexuality to continue to grow in other ways.

The first album I bought of kd lang’s was ‘Absolute Torch and Twang’. The cover shows an image of her wearing blue denim and holding a cowboy hat, standing in a grain field, with a bright and expansive sky overhead. She’s gazing confidently into the distance. She taught me to embrace who I am, to be expansive, and to be confident. Thank you, kd lang.

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Her Desire

CONTENT NOTE: this post contains erotic and explicit writing

She made eye contact with me the moment I entered the pub. It wasn’t fate; it was design. Her text messages had been specific and compelling. I arrived at precisely 10pm, she gestured to a seat at the bar and I waited there while she served her customer. Then I followed her to the door marked ‘Private’ and slipped in behind her.

We stood facing each other for a moment until I remembered her instructions and dropped my gaze. I focused on the toes of her black ballet pumps: they were scuffed and worn from too many busy shifts. I knew we had only a little time now: ten minutes at the most until she was expected to be back, pulling pints and measuring shots.

I watched her feet as she stepped out of her skirt and moved towards an armchair. I sat on the chair, my hands firmly pinned underneath the weight of my thighs. I dared a glance up at her. She wore a suspender belt but no stockings. Instead, the clasps of the belt were attached to a square of latex, held snuggly against her cunt. So, she really did mean ‘no touching’.

She straddled my lap, grinding against my belt buckle and the buttons on my jeans. I breathed in her scent: beer and a heavy floral perfume. I was 16 again. The landlady of my local had taken me under her wing, given the leering men at the bar a stern talking to, and clasped me to her bosom in an expression of maternal comfort. At 16, I was way too young to be able to deal with the men grabbing at my arse, but I was old enough to understand the thrill I got from feeling my face pressed into the older woman’s breasts. At 16, all I could do was allow myself to be held; at 46, I knew my desires and I knew how to get them met.

She moved up from my lap to bring her crotch level with my face. Now the latex smell from the dental dam obscured the beer scent and there was another muskier note added to the mix. I breathed all of it in. The latex was smooth and warm and my tongue slipped easily over its surface. I pressed a little firmer and felt the contours of her cunt: the hidden folds and valleys that lay beneath; the latex square like a dust cloth that had been draped over priceless possessions to protect them while they lay dormant. Her cunt was not dormant though: I could feel it twitch and pulse beneath my tongue. I explored more of her shape, my eyes closed, my hands numbing under my thighs, my senses of taste and smell overloaded with the up-close-and-personal experience of licking her through the dental dam, and my own cunt flooding with the elicit thrill of touching yet not touching.

We had agreed all of this and, now that it was actually happening, I couldn’t imagine it any other way. To touch her with my hands would have seemed uncouth. To touch her directly with my lips and tongue would have overwhelmed me. There was so much of her to take in just as it was: her hard clit on its proud shaft able to take firm and sustained sucking through the mediation of the latex; her labia plump and full, slipping and sliding in her own moisture as my nose and chin pressed against them; our joint knowledge that this was the only way I could make her come – my tongue, her cunt.

I worked my tongue over every inch of the dental dam, noting her sweet spots and returning to them again and again. The temptation to nip at the latex with my teeth was great – I wanted to consume her – but I daren’t risk tearing the material and getting a taste of her. I knew one taste would never be enough, I knew I’d end up ripping the dam away from her, my fingers – blood rushing, skin burning – would be inside her, and I would break every agreement we had so carefully made.

Her breathing was heavy above me and her hips moved quickly against my face. I latched onto her, suctioning my mouth to her and keeping my tongue moving just so – just how she needed it to be. She held onto my shoulders as she rode out her orgasm.

At 1am, my phone beeped: she offered me another arrangement.

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What is intimacy? (and other good questions!)

One of my long-held ambitions has been to create a space where we can have open, heartfelt, and honest conversations about desire, intimacy, and how we each experience and express our unique sexual selves.

I wanted to make space for curiosity-piquing questions and deliciously deep-diving answers.

And I wanted to talk with people who could help me to broaden my perspectives and deepen my understanding.

I am thrilled to share the first in this series of videos on intimacy and desire with you!

My first guest is sex educator, bodyworker, and guide, Sue Sutherland of The Feel Institute.

We talk about:

  • What is intimacy?
  • How do I stay in connection with you without losing myself?
  • The delicious delight of sharing what’s special to each of us.
  • Permission to feel what we’re feeling.
  • The importance of asking yourself ‘what are you hungry for’?
  • Paying attention to your body to help locate your desires.
  • Speaking the unspeakable.
  • Expressing your desires and finding ways to bring what’s on your inside, out.

Find out more about Sue and The Feel Institute here.

Barking at the moon

CONTENT NOTE: this post contains erotic and explicit writing

I have no idea what phase the moon is in at the moment. Recently the nights have been heavily clouded and rain has run its tears down my window pane. I’ve not seen her for days.

Is she waxing? Waning? Half? Full?

She makes me howl.

She makes me weep.

She casts her glow across my sleeping body, studying me without my consent.

She wakes me in the night and we lie together, barely touching but palpably connected.

Until she slips from me.

Deserting me again.

And I start the day alone.

Where does she go?

To comfort another lover? On the other side of the world?

I miss seeing her face and feeling her cool touch.

I miss studying her, observing her shape and judging her mood.

And yet she never truly leaves me.

She is within me.

Tugging at me.

Filling my breasts and wetting my cunt.

She is relentless.

She gives me no respite.

Even as I sleep.

She comes for me again, and again, and again.

And I come for her: again and again and again.

photo credit: Pezibear on Pixabay